


The Bourne Stupidity

by hellkitty



Category: Bourne (Movies)
Genre: Crack, Deliberate Badfic, Gen, Meta, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:31:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One man. Alone. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VukDB6BB2Io"> Betrayed by the country he loves.... </a></p><p>If you like the Bourne movies and hate bad Matt Damon jokes, might I point you to the back button? This is deliberately awful, terrible, cringeworthy badfic, but writing it made me laugh and if you'd had the godawful week I've had, that's a big something. The rating is for language: trust me, there is nothing 'mature' about this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bourne Stupidity

It’s harder than it looks to lose yourself, even if you don’t know who the fuck you are.  At least it was the one thing Jason Bourne couldn’t do. Kill a guy with a plastic spork? Turn a toaster into an IED? Turn a letter opener into a deadly weapon while eschewing an entire drawer full of actual knives? Check. Look deer-eyed and vulnerable to women while holding a pistol? Double check.  Manage to live a life without strangers trying to kill you every few months, haunted by your tragic and mysterious past? Not so check.

All right, the other issue he had was, you know, keeping girlfriends alive. But it all added to his loner mystique and also spared him the effort of having to do banal and boring shit like debating between Russell Stover and Godiva chocolates for Valentine’s Day: everyone knew Russell Stover were better, but, you know, chicks dig Godiva. Something about hairy women imprinted on their candies or something: what the fuck did he know. He just knew what worked: it had never failed him before.

Anyway, what he did know, right now, was that he was being chased through the Upper West Side at sunset.  Because maybe one day he’d figure out that he should go into hiding someplace other than a major metropolitan area with a fantastic skyline and a high concentration of foreign nationals like, you know, the fucking UN or something, but…that day is not today.

At least it wasn’t theater day, where he’d have to dodge through busloads of old ladies from New Jersey in to see _Cats_ for the ninetieth time, because it would totally ruin his good guy image to knock some little old Italian lady on her ass and break her hip just because she happened to be in the way of his high speed, high tension thrill a minute dash for freedom.  It was Friday and the opera crowd was already massing like well-dressed water buffalo across to Lincoln Center and the only people left in restaurants were people there for the food.

***IDEA***

Which was, like all of his ideas, absolutely brilliant and guaranteed to work, and moreover, he’d manage to look absolutely dashing during it.  Treadstone programming was pretty damn thorough on that last point. Because, goddammit, you were representing AMERICA and thus should be kind of hunky at all times, yet also boyish and very clearly heterosexual. Because America.

It was a very hunky, boyish, and clearly heterosexual Jason Bourne that of course flawlessly executed his on-the-fly plan, dodging into a doorway, and in the space of two strides, managing to slow his steps down to a mere hurried walk, convincing everyone around him that he had just been racing because he was running late to meet someone…here.

Wherever here was.  

Names didn’t matter, of course. Well, except his own. Which sounds a lot like narcissism, but you can’t be a narcissist with such a tragic and deep past you can’t even remember. You can just be…kind of sad. The kind of sad women want to hug the fuck out of. Or hug and then fuck. He was pretty okay with either option, honestly, but only because the women he ran into were always borderline supermodels.  Hell, that one girl in Russia didn’t even have pores.  

So here he was, a man with a dozen names, none of them real, standing in a place with no name, and this was all starting to sound very noir, including the fact that he knew the guys after him had very large caliber guns and very small ethics and maybe standing in the doorway was tempting fate a bit too much, even for Jason Bourne.

It didn’t take long to figure out this strategy: chicks couldn’t resist Jason Bourne.  Maybe Treadstone had monkeyed with his pheromones or something. He didn’t question it, it was just another amazing almost uncanny borderline superpower he had like remembering entire bank routing numbers while not remembering his actual name or what he had for breakfast two weeks ago. So, the obvious tactic was to home in on a single woman, like he was a lion and she was a gazelle in the African savannahs and never fucking mind that lions just laid around being lazy and sporting fabulous manes while the lionesses did all the hunting, because this was a metaphor and metaphors weren’t fucking science. Or biology. Or…whatever.

He was already on his game as he slid into the highbacked booth, making sure he was on the side facing the door,  radiating Boyish Charm like he was a preteen with his first Axe Body Spray experience. “Sorry I’m late,” he murmured, flashing his Winning Smile at his chosen victim. Mark. Cover. Alibi. Uh. Whatever.

...misfire. 

Shit. She was ooooold. Like the oldest woman he’d ever seen who wasn’t some background window dressing simply designed to offset the hottiness of the women that normally did step into the Bourne Zone (shhhh he’s already trademarked that so he can retire once he sorts out all this mysterious past bullshit). She must have been like…fuck. Over thirty. Ancient. He was surprised she could even smile without her face breaking into weird old lady dust that smelled like waxy lipstick and Youth Dew.

Never mind that he was over thirty himself. Probably. One benefit to not knowing who you are and having twenty different passports each with a different birthday was ambiguity.  He could be in his late thirties. He could be mid-twenties.  He could even, at times, pass for a college janitor full of angst and untapped potential. Who knew?  But this lady? OLD.  

“Who the hell are you?”

Wait, that wasn’t supposed to happen: women were supposed to be instantly intrigued by his boyish good looks and air of vulnerable manliness and driven to help him, like some giant Pavlovian thing but with less drool.  

Damn old people. “Todd,” he said. “Todd Alquist. You know, your fiancé.” He added, sotto voce, “Christ, what are you, senile?”  He flashed a smile, tagging on a bright, “Sweetheart.”  Get with the program, you old bat. There’s a life to be saved.  Namely his. And probably a bit of freedom and liberty, too. Just because.

“Uh huh.” Jesus, she wore her hair in a bun. And not even one of those messy sexy buns. This was like a librarian bun or something. Like they issue them to old ladies to store their spinster despair or something.  “Sorry, Todd. You’re not my type.”

“What. So you’re like a lesbian or something?” There was just no possible earthly way she could be straight and not succumb to his Bournitude. It defied every known law in his world. 

She opened her mouth to answer, her forehead wrinkled and he figured it was going to stay that way, all pruny and unbotoxed and who the fuck even doesn’t do that? when the maitre d’ came over, extending a menu to Jason. Right. Back on the game.  Good thing he practiced his Winning Smile in the mirror daily: it was getting a hell of a workout. “I was running late.”

“Of course, m’sieur,” the maitre d’ said, blandly.

“You can see,” the old lady said, smiling sweetly, “I’d entirely given up on him.”

The maitre d’ gave Jason a stern, disapproving look. Which was not at all how these things were supposed to go down. Her old lady vibes must be interfering with his charm, which was probably pretty much a good reason to not hang out with hags.  Once he survives this.

Which he will, because he’s Jason Goddam Bourne.

Okay, that wasn’t his real middle name, but Jason Bourne wasn’t his real name either. It was part of that metacritical freedom of having an alias.  He supposed that the ability to look so hot in a turtleneck heatherknit sweater was also part of a metacritical something, too.

"Cocktail?"

"He'll have a Ketel One martini, up, with a twist."  Old bat gave her pinched spinster grin. "See, 'sweetheart'? I remembered."

Wait, what? This was not how it was supposed to go. Never mind that that sounded kind of classy and suitably spy-like, it was the principle of the thing.

Still, his keen super agent eye caught a sinisterly hulking shadow in the doorway, so making a scene was not on the agenda. Yet.  "Perfect," he said, Winning Smile going into overtime, flashing between the Old Bat and the pencil-mustached too-French-to-be-real maitre d'.  Hyperbolically French. For a moment Jason wondered if he were an agent from Treadstone, but that would require a) a hell of a coincidence and b) Treadstone to violate its American flag-waving eagle-cuddling self-image.

And then they were alone. "I can order for myself, you know."

"I know, Todd. We're engaged, right?" She rolled her eyes. "Seriously, is that the best cover story you can come up with?"

"No one's ever complained before," he said, brows knitting. It was a classic approach to hiding behind women. Which...Jason Bourne totally never did. Except when they were really hot and their lives were woefully in need of adventure. And when he didn't want to die because he had the whole mystery of his past to unravel first.

She wasn't at all hot, but clearly, in need of adventure. Anyone who wore matching jewelry sets needed some excitement.

And here it came, the burly bald guy at the door making eye contact, his hand reaching under his coat for the bulky pistol Jason knew was there, because the men who tended to run after him also tended to be armed, and tended, apparently, toward small penises that they offset with high caliber guns.

In this case, a gold plated Desert Eagle. Jesus. There was probably a Hemingway-esque story behind that one. But Jason had no time for anyone else's profound, issue-ridden story, at least, beyond his own mysterious quest narrative, so he did what he did best: leap into action.

His own gun was, of course, modestly-sized and made in America *cough* and he felt confident he could handle this, unless bald neckless guy here had one of those John Woo magazines for that monster overcompensatingly phallic pistol. 

As for the action itself, it was, well...reasonably epic. Because Jason Bourne was a helicopter of bullets and feet when he needed to be, but he was also modest. And also, he had precisely zero notion of property damage, so could improvise with brown bar trays, a lamb leg and ribs in a basil oil, and a dish of lime slices in a way that would turn Jason Statham puce with envy.

Hurricane Bourne, however, did have a conscience when it came to ladies, even withered old bats like this one, so he grabbed her by her excitement-starved wrist (Jesus, was that a Pandora bracelet?), tugging her down the long vault of the restaurant, into the kitchen, leaving a wake of chaos behind him.  They were closing on him, fast, and so having her behind him, dragged by her bony wrist, was always a strategy designed to make sure they didn't shoot him in the back. 

It of course didn't stop him from shooting back over her shoulders a few times. Because he was that damn good.

Finally, they broke through the delivery entrance, which reeked of petrichor and old fish, grey concrete gritty under his suave Italian made shoes as he spun to a stop. "Did you drive here?"

She was flustered, face patchy and red from running, "What the hell even is this? A kidnapping? And talk louder!"

"What are you, deaf?"

She squinted up at him. "Deaf? No, but some asshole decided to blow off a firearm a few times really near my goddam head."

Who--oh. She meant him. Excuse you, lady, but Jason Bourne is not an asshole. He'd have a pile of references to attest otherwise if...they didn't keep getting killed.  Fine. Point made. "OKAY. LOOK I'M SORRY."

She tugged her wrist out of his hand, smacking him with her purse--and what the fuck did she have in there? Pie weights?--and started stomping away.

"Where are you going?" He trotted to catch up with her.

She shook her head, tapping her ears. "I'm going to my damn car. Thanks for the apology and like, ruining my evening and all, though, TODD."

"You're welco--" Wait. That was sarcasm, wasn't it. You could not fool him. For long. "Look." He grabbed her arm, spinning her to a stop facing him again. "You don't understand. Now that they've seen you with me, they're going to be going after you, too. You're in danger. You have to come with me."

"Are you fucking serious?"

Hey, wow, that wasn't very ladylike language. 

"Listen, Todd, or whatever your real name is, I like my life. I didn't ask to get sucked into whatever clusterfuck you've got going on. Though I can understand why people want to shoot you." She pulled free again, digging in her ginormous purse, and fishing out a set of keys.

"Yes, because I'm a threat to national security."

"No. Because you're an arrogant schmuck."

Wait, what? No. This was really wrong. Like step into Star Trek mirrorverse wrong. Maybe he'd been drugged or something and this was all some terrible hallucination. Or flashback. That would be angsty, wouldn't it? Tormented by horrible flashbacks? Does this count as a horrible flashback?  It was time to pull out his patented look of baby-seal-eyed cluelessness and vulnerability. "Look, I'm telling you the truth!" Look at this face. LOOK AT THE HONEST. 

"Sure, Todd."

"Okay. Fine. Todd isn't my real name."

"No shit."

"But everything else is true."

"Uh huh, so you're really my fiance."

Yeah, well, okay, not that. Jesus, that would be some Wife of Bath's Tale kind of fuck no.  Which would be literary and smart but also horrible.  

"I meant the other stuff." 

He followed her down the block, into the parking garage. "Yeah, sure. Look, I'm not interested in untangling your obviously torrid love affair with half-truth. I just want to go home. Maybe grab a bagel on the Turnpike or something."

"You can't. Look. I'm telling you the truth. Really." The garage attendant gave him a 'tsk' look, before heading down the ramp to get her car. "Look. My name's Jason Bourne. Well, I mean, not really, but--"

"Oh god, just stop. Really."

An engine sound started up in the bowels of the garage, and a black Dodge Neon rolled up the ramp. 

"Look, Jason Todd whoever." She slipped by the valet, handing him a folded five-dollar bill, and pausing in the open driver's side door. "As you can see, there's not enough room in this car for you and all your issues. So, I guess this is goodbye. Faretheewell. Au revoir except without the revoir part."

Why was she not understanding this? Did her bun somehow prevent cognitive comprehension or something? She was in danger!

Very obvious danger, in the form of three men clad in those suit and tie combos that just scream G-men, suddenly lining in the garage's doorway.  He gave an inward curse, and quickly aborted a plan to slide, Dukes of Hazzard style, over the hood of the Neon, but it was a Neon, and that meant that even though it was Made in America, just like he was, it was also about as sturdy as a roller skate.

And definitely not bulletproof. 

He was also not entirely bulletproof: a flaw in the Treadstone plan. "WE have to get out of here," he said, pointing. In case her old lady eyes were a little dim on the obvious. He reached for the keys, but she snatched them away.

"You better let me drive." He knew the Agency; how they'd pursue him with a brutal doggedness. They were desperate to keep their secrets secret: almost as desperate as Jason was to, uh, unsecret them. 

"I can drive my own car." She scowled, looking legitimately pissed-off angry and not at all 'pretty and pouting and looking to him to fix problems'. 

"You don't know what we're up against." 

"Oh get over yourself." She fwumped into the car in a cloud of middle-aged-lady and frumpy long skirts, jamming the key into the ignition, engine revving on as the men at the head of the garage ramp began pacing down, hands drawing guns which indicated that after him, the Agency had had a real run of phallic insufficiency. 

Jason flung himself into the passenger seat just as she disengaged the parking brake.   She glared over at him, hand slamming the gearshift into first, popping the clutch, the small car leaping forward. She somehow managed to dodge all of the men--some magic skill of a monumentally tiny car--hipchecking one with a sideview mirror before skewing hard onto the street. 

"Behind us." A too suspicious grey van, coming to life outside the bistro's facade, peeling into the street behind them.

"I see them."

"You should let me drive."

"Yeah, I'm going to go with no.  Unless you're going to take over my insurance premiums, Angsty McLyingpants." She threw herself into the intersection, crossing over a lane of traffic around the Barnes and Noble, tearing down the street, slamming the brakes on hard enough to pitch him against the seatbelt. That was going to leave a bruise, dammit.

"Where'd you learn to drive?"

"New Jersey," she said, blandly, flooring it at the green again, dodging nimbly between two cabs, somehow managing to flip both of them off as she did.

Yeah, apparently so. That was about the New Jersey Driverest thing he'd ever seen.

"Well, we can't go back there." By now, just from a visual, they'd probably ID'd her and were dispatching a team to her house.  "I mean it. Not for a few days.  But I can....I have money." Mysterious money that was somehow pilfered from the taxpayers, and she looked like the type to pay her taxes so...really it was her money, too. But whatever. Ethics were complicated. Money was simple, and money always worked, especially when combined with his own personal version of Blue Steel. Which he was liberally applying, now. 

She looked over at him, before turning onto the Harlem River Drive. "Seriously, you need a better way to pick up women. Fine.  But I better be at work on Monday."

If odds held, she'd probably be dead by Monday, but now was time to exercise his almost sociopathic managing of the truth, massaging it like a Thai expert. "Of course. First thing, though...we're going to need to do something with your hair."

**Author's Note:**

> Friend of mine and I were talking about the sort of idiot-savantism you often see in movie ‘strong female characters’—the female character has one amazing ability or power, but is otherwise a complete and utter failure/wreck of a human being, basically a gendered version of the people you see on Snuggie commercials: the ones who can’t figure out how to use a fucking afghan so they need a blanket with sleeves that make them look like members of increasingly bizarre cults. 
> 
> We were also talking about female erasure once the female character is no longer ‘nubile’. A lot of the age jokes are brought about by the fact that Matt Damon and I are actually the same age. 
> 
> We were also talking about the danger/accusation of terrible self-insert Mary Sue OCs
> 
> What a stew this is, and it’s that point in the semester where everything’s just so damn serious and my GOD people lighten up. 
> 
> Also, I was such a huge fan of the Ludlum Bourne novels and the movies are so…not them so there’s a special corner of WTF in my heart for them, right alongside where I put IDW’s Spotlight Mirage. 
> 
> Trivia: The drink she orders him is what my dad always orders. Also, the restaurant is Bar Boulud, which really does have excellent food and last time I was there, an uberFrenchy head waiter. Yes I am a classy bitch like that. Also I used to drive a black Neon coupe, manual; it gets a cameo here, because my then-husband said no self-respecting man would ever drive such a 'chick' car.


End file.
